


Long

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25201798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Lust, longing, or love?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 101





	Long

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



Crowley doesn’t like to think about it, but angels _were_ made to love. 

Of course, if he ever did think about it, he then sneered internally that they’re very good at that. They love, alright, but it’s self-love. And not in the quintessentially Human way of hands in their own pants, just… self-aggrandising and all that.

Still. He does remember. The early days, before things got off course. 

When it was… good. Or, at least, no one had yet to notice the places that were not… so good.

It’s why, he would tell himself, as he swigged another bottle of tart-but-nearly-perfect-in-its-degrading-alcohol...ness… thing… why he likes the things he does so much. 

Some of the demons threw themselves in headfirst into torture, or filth, or revenge. They got their kicks from seeing others suffer, and from the eventual ‘told you so’ they pictured Armageddon to be. 

Eh. He liked watching a pompous, self-righteous moron take a pratfall over their own hypocrisy as much as the next. And it was fun to point out the ironies (he would still never forgive Chaucer for popping his clogs too soon), but that alone wasn’t enough.

He wanted to… to… enjoy _things_. Or… situations. But not in a _schadenfreude_ kind of a way. Or not always.

He liked things. He liked… wine. And whiskey and beer and all sorts of other methods for turning basic crops into intoxicating liquids. The corrupted grain and fruit providing such wild abandon was… okay, so maybe it was an ironic liking on some level. But also it tasted good and made him feel good and when he did it with Aziraphale it was… 

(He was not supposed to say, think, or do ‘good’. So maybe he should say ‘enjoyable’.)

Sleeping was g-- sleeping was a hobby he enjoyed. Sometimes it was an escape, an attempt to avoid things he’d rather not deal with. But it was… other times, it was slipping his body into a comfortable, safe position. It was releasing all thoughts, and drifting into sensations, and then into something other than… other than here and now. 

Plants. He liked his plants. He took pride in them. His car. He loved his car, and he wasn’t ashamed to say it. No matter what some people and beings thought, he was perfectly certain he could feel love, still. It was there when he stroked the steering wheel, or pulled the gears through their steady changes. His Bentley was a monument to the ingenuity of thought over discomfort, and beauty wrought from base metals and materials. 

You wouldn’t find an angel or a demon making something like that. No. Even he didn’t think he’d be able to create something like his car, and that was mostly because it involved more effort than he’d been prepared to put into things. 

Crowley preferred to tinker. To tweak, twist, change. To look at a system and see the weak spots. To ask ‘what if’ and ‘why not’ questions. Six thousand years and he’d mostly just pulled at frayed strings, and these Humans - admittedly building on their ancestors - with their sixty-plus years could go and make things like cars and mobile phones and Wikipedia and buttons you pressed and someone gave you food, or your printer could print out a leg. 

Magnificent, Humans were.

Crowley was not ashamed to admit he sort of loved them for it. 

And.

And it’s why it was so damned difficult with the angel.

He couldn’t pin it down, not really. It happened over thousands of years, and it happened instantly, and it happened multiple, distinct times, and it never needed to happen at all. It wasn’t as if one day he could work it out. There was no shocking epiphany, no split clouds and no choirs of his erstwhile angelic cousins declaring: ‘You’re fucked!’

Might have been easier, that way.

But he knew, somehow. Like you knew, if your hand burned, to pull it back from what hurt. Like you knew, if you were cold, to rub your hands over yourself. It was just… there.

The question about when he first felt… uh… lustful thoughts? It’s…

He can’t, actually, pin it down. Because he isn’t certain he’s had them, at least not in the way the angel imagines. 

Yes, he’d wanted things. He’d watched Humans over the years, and in theory he understood, and knew it was a physical urge like hunger, thirst, tiredness, and so on. An urge to continue the species, but under that an urge to make the body feel good with stimulus. 

He… hadn’t. Wanted. Not - not…

He wasn’t going to make little demons, even if he could. Why would he? They’d have a shitty life. Plus, he wasn’t sure there was any of that drive in him. And sure, rubbing and bumping might be satisfying in sensation, but so was a good straight stretch of road and a humming engine, or a nice Merlot, or a sunny day with the faintest of breezes. 

Crowley had seen the Humans doing things. Had encouraged it. Had… maybe occasionally considered it for himself… but it wasn’t what he thought of, when he dreamed about his angel. Or, not primarily.

Maybe it was lame of him, but he’d… it had… he’d just wanted _more_.

More of what they did have. More… meeting up. Seeing plays. Getting drunk. Feeding birds. Talking nonsense. Going for drives. Just…

He had dreamed, when he didn’t catch himself in time, of driving up to the shop, pipping his horn, and taking the angel out for the day. Without looking over his shoulder, without code-words, without the fear that someone might overhear things he said and know… 

Know that Crowley… loved him. Like, ugh, all the dumb shit aside… he did. He was his best friend. Only friend, but that didn’t stop him from being the best he could ever have. One he wanted to spend time with, and… and… just… be with.

He’d let his mind, when tired or low, wander to images of them on a couch, watching dumb shit together. Or the angel putting his hand over his. Or… uhm.

(Kissing.)

(He’d definitely wanted that. In the rain, up against the shelves, in his car…)

The other thing, the bumpy, grindy, rubby thing… he’d definitely enjoyed it when it started. And his mind now dutifully provided him with plenty of ideas for things they hadn’t yet done, or not done enough of in recent days. 

But it wasn’t lust. Which he should have been ashamed of, being a demon and all. It was something else. It wasn’t just a cock sliding past his lips and down his throat, it was the heated, loving gaze down on him, and the gentle stroke of a thumb over his cheeks.

It was never just the thought of legs kicked wide, or hands pushed over head, or the sweet slide of skin into skin. That was all very nice, but it - it - it was always with the knowledge that it was something sacr--- uh… special. It was a dance, not a… not a simple exchange. It was the offering of something beyond body, beyond dignity. It was… it…

It meant nothing, if it wasn’t Aziraphale. And it could never mean nothing, if it was Aziraphale. 

Fingers in his hair, and a wealth of memories behind each twirl. Teeth on his throat, and a knowledge that the angel was supposed to sever it, not savour. Crowley wanted these things, but only because it was _him_. It wasn’t, really, lust. 

And he knew that when, one morning, his angel turned sleepily in his arms and burrowed his head under his chin, forcing curly hair up his nose. Crowley’s body absolutely was awake and aware, but he’d wait all year long if the angel wanted to sleep in. His response was second to something… something else. 

Something he’d deny, even to the angel. Pointlessly, because he knew Aziraphale felt it too.

This, this… meeting… this… expression… it was just one of many instruments in the orchestra, all playing part of the same tune. It existed only because of the score, because of the movement, because…

Because of their love. 

Aziraphale sometimes drooled on his shoulder. Crowley wondered if he was dreaming of pastries, or if he was just messy when he let go. It didn’t make him love him any less.


End file.
